The relentless downpour of pre-holiday catalogs has slowed to a trickle. And, since I’m not in purchasing mode right now, most of them come in and go out unread. But one from The Vermont Country Store found its way into my office.

Looking for something to do to avoid tackling my To Do List, I opened it. Now most catalogs have some sort of a general theme to entice the buyer. Harry and David® offer fruit, Williams-Sonoma® offers kitchenware, Lillian Vernon® offers cheap.

The Vermont Country Store offers nostalgia.

My dictionary defines nostalgia as “a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one’s life.” Leafing through the catalog, I did enjoy becoming reacquainted with such items as Walnettos and Aunt Jemima’s Easy-Bake Coffee Cake.

As a young child, Walnettos, a caramel with nuts, were part of my after-church-on-Sunday visit to the candy store. So was Valomilk, which isn’t a milk product at all. It’s more like today’s Reese’s® Peanut Butter Cup, only filled with gooey white crиme in the center.

The coffeecake intrigued me as a young teen because the dry ingredients came in a bag with its own disposable baking pan too. You added the specified egg and water to the bag. When everything was mixed, you poured the contents into the semi-rigid baking pan, put it in the oven, and ate it half an hour later. Besides providing an after-school snack, Aunt Jemima made me feel like a great cook.

Then there was the shampoo you used without water. Called Pssssssst®, it was supposed to tide your mom or grandma over between beauty shop appointments. Dippity-do® was a precursor to today’s gels, mousses, sprays, and aerosols that keep every hair in place. Other pages revealed the first Green Goddess dressing, a genuine oilcloth just like my Mother had on our kitchen table, an old fashioned enamel breadbox, a manually operated meat grinder, and that once popular fragrance, “Evening in Paris,” in its original bottle.

It was definitely a nostalgic few minutes, but I drew the line at actually wishing to physically return to those early years. In fact, I didn’t order a single item.

Today is one of those days where I feel like the human equivalent of a hibernating bear. I’m in my household cave; it’s gray and wet outside; and I have no intention of sallying forth. There are no “Must Do’s” on my calendar either, not even so much as a reminder to wish a friend Happy Birthday or check with the yarn shop about my special order.

I slept in and am now in reading mode. Maybe I’ll play piano after that or crochet or take a nap.

I think my friend, Carol, would be pleased, because she is known to encourage me to “Get back to the garden.” I know she doesn’t really mean the garden, as in yard work, but the Garden as in allowing oneself to simply be and not be doing every minute.

I feel her mentally shaking her head when we talk on the phone and I say I’ve taken a part-time job that’s become almost full time or that I’m racing a clock to finish an afghan. “Get back to the garden,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

But for some reason today I am in the Garden or Cave or whatever you want to call it with no desire to leave. It’s a strange feeling, and I expect it will pass by tomorrow. But it has given me pause in more ways than one. I may even have to call Carol and tell her.

You’ve probably heard that old saying, the one where a man or woman notes, “I read the obituaries first thing every morning to see if I should get out of bed.” I think the way you respond to this quaintness indicates where you are in life.

As a teenager, I didn’t even really understand what obituaries were, so the saying itself was beyond my comprehension. In my twenties and thirties, I understood it intellectually but still never turned to that page in the local newspaper. I was more interested in the style page and the entertainment section.

In my forties and fifties, a subtle shift occurred. I began reading the Sunday obituaries in the Chicago Tribune because it was one way of noting the passing scene. That newspaper, and possibly others, print a recap each Sunday of those influential people who have died the previous seven days. I found it to be a Who’s Who of notoriety, as well as being a Who’s Who of who’s dead.

Most recently, I’ve taken to reading the obits, although not with the idea of determining whether I should get out of bed each morning. Rather, I’m taken with the local paper’s slant on peoples’ passing on. Bear in mind, I no longer live in Chicago where obituaries stick to the facts, thanks to the cost of adding too many words.

But here in St. Joseph, Michigan, obituaries tend toward the flowery and the detailed. So-and-so is said to have gone to the arms of his or her Lord, to be resting in the bosom of Heaven, to have been called home. After the opening joyous statement, there follows a rather lengthy description of the deceased’s history, extended family, and other interests. Finally, there is information about how to send a memorial or otherwise honor the deceased.

I find it rather touching that a newspaper takes time (although possibly it charges just like the Chicago Tribune does) to sketch the deceased life in gentle words. And, while I don’t check the obits for my own demise, I appreciate that when it eventually happens the local paper will take note in such a caring way.

“I hate it when machines are smarter than I am,” said Earl. “And, today, most of them are.”

I have to admit he is right. As he and I age, we are no longer on the cutting edge of life, much less technology. In fact, I sometimes feel like dinosaurs must have felt millions of years ago. They saw the future and it was confusing.

Two examples.

We were going to dinner a while back with some out-of-town friends who picked us up in a rental car. It had one of those gizmos where you plug in your address (Starting Point) and the address of the restaurant (Destination) and the car gives you explicit instructions on how best to get there. We thought we would test this, even though we were going to a place we’d been many times before.

We plugged in the appropriate information and received verbal instructions on how to proceed. Except that we took a short cut. “You are off the route,” an unidentifiable voice came from the auto. “You are off the route. Get back on the route.” It felt as if we were in the military. We never did get back on the route; instead, we turned the electronic mapper off. We had a good laugh about it, but what if someday we are required to stay on the route?

Then, yesterday we were shopping in Meijer’s. Since we purchased only one item, it seemed like a good idea to try the automatic cashier. We punched a “Start” button and were told to scan our item in the automatic scanner, which we did. Another unidentifiable voice commanded, “Put your scanned item in the grocery bag.” How could it know we were derelict? Logically, I imagine that the weight of the item in the grocery bag means something, but it is disconcerting that a machine knows whether you’re still holding the tuna fillets in your hand.

The next thing was to check out. The automatic cashier told us we owed $4.06. Earl deposited a $20 bill into the proper slot. In less time than a human could calculate, he received his $15.94 change. That’s when we broke out laughing.

I imagine someday our house will tell us when the floors need sweeping, the oven needs cleaning, and the beds need changing. And you know what? I’m not so sure that will be an improvement.

Earl and I do not like the same things for dinner, so that meal holds its share of challenges. He likes to eat early; I prefer late. He doesn’t like vegetables; I could make a meal of them. He slathers everything with mustard or ketchup or butter or salad dressing; I go for the natural flavor.

With these personal preferences in mind, we’re always trying new strategies at dinnertime. So recently we decided to tour the local supermarkets together in search of fresh meals offered from the deli counter, just like Dominick’s® offers in Chicago.

You can visit Dominick’s® on your way home from work and purchase soup, rolls, entrйes that range from beef stew to sautйed fish to baked chicken, with sides of mashed potatoes in several flavors, great looking beans, wonderful asparagus, cold salads, and more – – all freshly made that day! It does make life easier for the cook.

Earl and I had the idea that if something comparable existed in St. Joe, it could help us have dinner at a reasonable hour with little effort, other than heating the meal and plating it. We could each have the entrйe of our choice too.

So today we ventured forth, going to Meijer’s, Wal-Mart, and Martin’s – all local supermarkets — to size our options. At Meijer’s the deli department consisted of blocks of cold meats and cheeses, fried chicken you could warm at home, and pasty looking French fries. Wal-Mart was the same.

Martin’s, a local chain, did have some entrйes like the ones Dominick’s® offers, but they were limited to beef stroganoff, Salisbury steak, and coconut chicken. Since I watch the amount of beef I eat and dislike coconut chicken, that deli didn’t do much for our plan.

What to do? Neither of us wants to take cooking lessons. Furthermore, neither of us is willing to give in on the time we eat, what we eat, or the entrйe we like. I guess the next best thing is to shop in Chicago and bring the fresh food home, wrap it for the freezer, and see how it tastes over the week as we thaw and reheat. Or, better yet, perhaps we could become fruit and nut gatherers.

Over the years, the tension in my everyday life has manifested itself in various parts of my body. I assume I’m not unique in this regard, as everyone has tensions and needs to relieve themselves of them.

When I was in college, tension showed up in my stomach, sometimes making it difficult for me to eat. Once I ended up in the local teaching hospital as physicians and their shadow interns tried to discern what was wrong with me. I endured barium X-rays, glucose tolerance tests, and psychological analysis. Six days later I was released with an admonition to visit my family doctor, who said I was high strung.

But that was years ago. In the interim, my stomach problems turned into emotional problems, which subsequently turned into frozen shoulders, which then became neck pain, which then – and currently – became clenched teeth.

After many years of this syndrome, I realize that at one time or another my body takes the brunt of my feelings. Perhaps the original family doctor was right when he said I was high strung. I’d like to rid my body of such responsibility, but so far I’ve not been able. But, here is what I have done as a safeguard.

When one part of my body seems to be exhausted, I do whatever it takes to recognize it and nurture it. With this in mind, I’m currently seeing a masseuse who works on the relationship of frozen shoulder to clenched teeth. I think I’ll be happy with the result.

Most likely another part of my body will take up the slack. Will it be my arms or my throat or maybe back to my stomach? It’s okay, since I recognize the syndrome and am ready to work with it.